Twilight of Language

By Christian Young

Imagine a light, so bright that it Makes
everything else pale in comparison;
And now imagine a hand, slowly moving,
Going towards the bulb of the light,
And, without pausing to see its err,
Yanks the light from its
socket.

The world is shrouded in darkness again.
Helpless to see, the hand flails wildly;
Grounded, it tries to find the unfindable
Instrument, while grinding it ever still
Like a thoughless child.

Arriving at last at a facsimile of language,
Rebuilt by that murderous hand, Intellect
trembles: language’s light had died, Killed by
those who used it to see.

Spring 2019 Issue